


My North, My South, My East and West

by starsandgutters



Series: 9x23 coda [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:48:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1710551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgutters/pseuds/starsandgutters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He drove all the way here with the memory of Dean’s easy smile pulling at him like a magnet, like some unknown immovable force; he couldn’t resist it then and he can’t do so now, no more than if he was a compass needle and Dean was the true North.</i>
</p><p>The road to Kansas is long, but to Castiel, it seems thousands of miles longer than it should be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My North, My South, My East and West

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from [the same Auden poem](http://homepages.wmich.edu/~cooneys/poems/auden.stop.html) as the [first part](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1670417) of this coda.
> 
> Sorry about the wait, but what was going to be a short scene ended up being a 6000+ words gremlin. That's what happens when you feed the feels after midnight.
> 
> Thanks goes to [Amber](weasleywasborninabin.tumblr.com) for betaing-- all remaining mistakes are mine.

The road to Kansas is long, but to Castiel, it seems thousands of miles longer than it should be. Had he not personally slammed the gate to Metatron’s cell, he would suspect a trick of some kind, another illusion, like the time he’d thought Gabriel had returned.

He is overly aware of the physical limits of the car, like a stifling, confining metal trap around him, and wishes once again that he still had wings, to feel the open night air - _Dean Winchester is alive, **alive** ,_ he’d shout to the stars in his elation, until every angel and beast in creation knew it -  but more importantly to _get him there quickly._

He has tried calling Dean’s cellphone twelve times, but it is turned off. Then he switched to trying to reach Sam, but while his phone had been on, Sam had not picked up. An hour after Cas gives up, he gets a single text message from Sam:

 

_Hurry._

 

Castiel floors it.

Dean had always said speed limits were more like guidelines, anyway.

 

***

 

He reaches Lebanon as the sun is setting, and by the time his car skids to a halt in front of the bunker, the sky has fully darkened. Castiel slams the car door closed without looking back, and then he’s knocking on the door once, twice.

No answer.

Tentatively, he pushes at it, and it gives way, opening. Castiel frowns. Such carelessness is not typical of the boys, and he’ll have to have words with them, but later, _God, later._ He rushes in, surprised to find the inside of the bunker plunged into darkness; there’s a single table lamp casting a dim, spectral light at the long table where Sam sits, drinking.

Castiel stops in his tracks briefly, confused. Doesn’t Sam _know_ Dean is alive? Then he remembers the urgency in Dean’s prayer - _you_ _’_ _re gonna have to kill me, Cas_ \- and he shivers, jolting back into action, closing the distance between himself and the table.

“Sam.” His voice is warm, but stern. “Where is he?”

Sam looks up, and his eyes are wild, red-rimmed, like he hasn’t slept in days. Something lights behind them at Castiel’s words, something Castiel does not like one bit. “Cas.”

“Sam.”Castiel repeats, uncertain. “Are you all right?” He wants to sit down with Sam, to comfort him, but he _can_ _’_ _t_ do this now, he has to know, _has to see Dean_ ; he settles for laying a hand on Sam’s shoulder, wishing he still had enough grace to read his mind.

Sam makes an ugly noise, like an aborted laugh, and his shoulder under Cas’s hand is tense, vibrating with frantic, barely contained energy, like a nervous animal.

“You could say that, I guess. Cas, I-- Cas. Did you get Metatron?”

Castiel nods, solemn. “He is locked in Heaven’s dungeons right now. If I have any say in it, he’ll rot there for all of eternity.”

Sam’s face contorts in anger for a moment, before he schools it back into something more calm, breathing deeply. There’s still fire in his eyes, though, and Castiel understands all too well. It hadn’t been easy, letting Metatron live. But it was the right thing, or so he thinks-- he’s beginning to realize he doesn’t have the best track record for knowing what the right thing is.

“He killed Dean, you know?” Sam’s voice is unsteady, that same dark anger permeating every word. “I saw him. I had to _watch_ as he plunged his blade into _my brother_ _’_ _s heart_ , and twisted it.” Sam knocks back the last of his whiskey, takes a shaky breath. “He _killed Dean_.”

Castiel starts, at that. He had assumed Metatron was lying about the whole thing, that he had only wounded Dean, but--

The awful, choking pain that had been weighing on his lungs before threatens to return, and Castiel has to remind himself that _no, no, Dean is alive, he prayed to me_ , and in a moment of panicked clarity he realizes that he _must_ tell Sam.

“Sam. Your brother’s alive. He-- I heard him. He’s not dead, Sam, I promise you.”

Sam looks at him again, and his eyes still have that wild, haunted expression.

“I know.”

“You _know_? How-- _Sam._ ” Castiel’s heart starts beating a sick rhythm against his ribs. “Sam, what did you _do?_ ”

Sam does that half-laugh thing again, then bites his lip, as if suddenly remembering there’s nothing funny about his predicament. He shakes his head. “Nothing, Cas. I swear. I didn’t do anything. I was going to-- I was going to summon Crowley, but…not for a deal. Just-- to fix Dean. You know, I told myself, no more messed-up trades, because that has never ended well for us, and one of us always gets locked up in Hell…” He has to stop and look away, swallow, his hand visibly shaking around the glass he clings to. “It’s ironic.” He smiles-- a bitter, unamused mockery of a thing.

Castiel is getting more confused and impatient by the second. “ _What_ is ironic, Sam?”

“Nothing.” Sam’s eyes regain their focus and land on him. “I didn’t do it, Cas. No deal. Crowley didn’t even show up.”

A deep sigh of pure _relief_ leaves Castiel’s lips, but his urgency is not diminished in the slightest. His want is a living thing, singing inside his vessel’s blood, beating at the walls of his veins. _Dean._

“Where’s Dean, Sam? Why are you not with him?”

Sam just looks at him for a moment, as if trying to weigh the pros and cons of actually _telling him,_ and it takes all Castiel has to remain calm.

_“_ _Sam._ _”_

“He’s in his room. And, uh. He won’t let me near him. Believe me, I’ve tried, but after the-- after the first time he…” Sam licks his lips, spins the empty glass around. “He just won’t let me see him.”

That’s enough information to go on. Castiel doesn’t know what is going on between them, but he knows where Dean is, now, and he figures he can just get the story from him. “Perhaps I’ll have better luck,” he says dryly, already turning to go - but really, what he means is _just let him try and keep me out_ \- when Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist.

“What, Sam?” Castiel could easily tear his wrist free, fading grace or not, and he _wants_ to, but Sam is his friend, and Sam has watched his brother die _again,_ and Sam is looking at him with a strange fear on his face, as if he’s struggling with a question for which there’s no possible right answer.

Eventually, Sam nods slightly, reaching a decision on whatever is eating away at him, and slowly releases Castiel’s wrist. “You can see him. You _should_ see him. But Cas…” he bites his lip again, eyes staring into Castiel’s with an almost desperate intensity, and for a moment he looks so young. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t-- don’t _hurt_ him? What in the-- what are you talking about, Sam? Why would I _hurt_ Dean?”

Even saying the words makes a thin, hot anger boil through Castiel’s body. It’s ridiculous, _ridiculous_ for Sam to even assume that he would ever--

( _but you_ _’_ _ve hurt him before,_ his treacherous brain supplies)

\-- but that was different, it was mind control, and he healed Dean, and this is now, and the brothers trust him, _Sam_ trusts him, so _what is going on here exactly_?

He opens his mouth again to protest, but Sam just shrugs, as if all the words have been drained out of him, and he looks tired, so tired.

“Just… _don_ _’_ _t._ Okay? I know you-- I know you care. Only…” he shakes his head again.  “Go. You should-- see for yourself.”

Castiel nods, and his stomach is churning with worry, but he _goes,_ because there simply is no other choice. He drove all the way here with the memory of Dean’s easy smile pulling at him like a magnet, like some unknown immovable force; he couldn’t resist it then and he can’t do so now, no more than if he was a compass needle and Dean was the true North. No matter where they stray, Castiel will always find his way back.

He’s only been inside Dean’s room once, but he remembers it perfectly: the sight of it after being stranded on his own, lost and weak, coping with humanity, had been like a warm balm on his soul; he remembers thinking _I could make a home for myself here. Have a room like this. Eat breakfast with Dean in the morning._ Those had turned out to be thoughts for another time, maybe for never. As it is, however, he finds Dean’s room easily, his steps sure, until…

He stops in the corridor, his hand raised, poised to knock. The air outside Dean’s room smells vaguely of electricity and-- _sulfur?_ Castiel’s stomach gives another sick lurch - _this can_ _’_ _t be good news_ \- but Sam had sworn to not making any deals, and it’s all right, it’s fine, whatever this is, they’ll figure it out. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

“Dammit Sam, go _away!_ _”_

Dean’s voice is gruff and raw, but even so, it is Dean’s voice, and Castiel finds himself smiling like a fool before he clears his throat. “Dean. It’s me. Cas.”

In the long pause that follows, Castiel almost expects Dean to shout him away too-- not that he has any intention to listen. Instead, “Hey, Cas,”he hears finally, “Come on in.”

It’s a tone that Castiel knows all too well, that fake lightness spread thin over Dean’s words, to try and hide underneath the bluster of bravado that he’s tired, afraid, and in way over his head; it makes Castiel’s heart drop inside his chest, but he turns the handle and steps inside.

Dean is sitting on the edge of his bed, his face turned away from the door. His shoulders are curved, arms resting on his knees, seemingly casual, but Castiel is fast to spot the tension in his muscles. The rest of the room is pretty much as he remembers it, except for three details: there’s a second bed-table on the left side of the bed, the First Blade is resting on a chair, and the photograph of Mary Winchester is lying face down on Dean’s bed-table, rather than propped up in its usual place.

That’s all Castiel has time to take in, before he has to reel back slightly, coughing. The stench of sulfur in the room is even stronger, permeating the air, and something just feels-- _off._

“So. You take down Metadouche?” Dean pauses briefly, as if he’s realized his fake cheeriness isn’t convincing even to himself. He then continues in a more sober tone: “I-- I heard it. When you broke the Angel Tablet. I mean, that’s what it was, right? That whole…thunder thing, and the earth quaking, and that bag of dicks disappearing.”

Castiel nods, distracted, as he squints to see Dean better. The lighting in the room is dim, and Dean is looking down at his hands-- but still, Castiel should not find it this hard to make out his face. It’s almost as if it is… _obscured,_ hidden away, by something darker than the shadows in the room.

And then something else strikes him, and he freezes for a moment, the air punched out of him.

_He can_ _’_ _t sense Dean_ _’_ _s soul._

He scans Dean’s body with his eyes and his grace, over and over, getting increasingly more anxious; he just _can_ _’_ _t find it,_ and Castiel would recognize Dean’s soul everywhere. It’s a warm, splendid thing, burning brighter than any other he’s ever seen; but more importantly, Castiel _knows_ it. He tore it out of hell, cradled it in his arms, _left his mark on it._

And now it’s nowhere to be seen.

Castiel orders himself to calm down. After all, this - he reminds himself - may just be his grace failing. When he was human, he could not see Dean’s soul then either. He saw other things instead: how _green_ his eyes looked in the sunlight, now that he could no longer discern the single shades of color; how he held his body around Castiel, self-contained but comfortable, a hand trailing down his arm like a promise of safety. All things he would once have glossed over, too mesmerized by the shifting of emotions in the soul inside him.

Yes, Castiel decides, this is probably on him. _There_ _’_ _s nothing out of the ordinary_ \-- he tells himself this sternly, even as he steps closer to bed and almost physically recoils at the sulfurous stench.

“The Angel Tablet is broken. Metatron is locked away. Dean…” _Let me see you,_ he wants to end that sentence, because Dean is still resolutely not meeting his eyes, but he doesn’t get the chance to.

“Don’t come close, Cas.”

The change in Dean’s demeanor is so abrupt as to be chilling. All pretense of lightness gone, he sits rigidly now, eyes still staring at his hands but obviously alert, and the tone of his voice is terse, almost sharp.

Castiel’s heart is beating a frantic, painful tattoo against his chest, and some part of him _knows_ this is not right, has started putting two and two together, but it’s drowned out by a loud panicked voice inside him chanting _no, no, no_ over and over. This is all going to be alright if he can just look at Dean in the face. If he can just _see_ \--

He keeps advancing towards the bed, undeterred by Dean’s visibly rising hackles, his body a knot of tension.

“The hell are you doing, Cas? I told you not to come any closer.”

“I just want to sit with you, Dean. I just want to talk.”

“Stand _back,_ Cas, I mean it.”

“Dean, you’re being ridiculous--”

“I said _DON_ _’_ _T_!”

Dean’s voice cracks sharp like a whip, and the dresser goes flying across the room, slamming violently into the opposite wall as the overhead lights flicker off and back to life.

In the silence that follows, the static crackle of the bedside lamp is deafeningly loud.

It’s Castiel who breaks it, after what feels like forever. His words are no more than an exhale of breath.

“Oh, _Dean_.”

Dean’s jaw works silently, painfully, but he can’t seem to find anything to say to that. His hands are shaking, one of them pressed over the Mark on his arm.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I’m so _sorry_.” He takes a step closer, and he can see it now: just behind the cover of Dean’s skin, there’s black smoke churning, lined with fire and brimstone; it swirls and uncoils in a Dean-shaped figure, and it’s…odd, to say the least.

With all the demons Castiel has ever seen, their true face was distorted, beast-like; a howling void of hatred, completely distinct from the person they were possessing. But this…is like nothing he’s seen before. It’s as if there are two of Dean, the human vessel and its demon counterpart, and they have the same shape; they’re more closely tied together than any vessel and true form Castiel has witnessed. In a way, it’s still unsettling, in a subtle way-- as if Dean was carrying around a visible, ominous shadow at all times. But it’s not… _repugnant,_ so to speak, and Castiel is very grateful for that. The last thing he wants at a time like this is to unwittingly recoil from Dean; Heaven knows, Dean's been through more than enough suffering.

Still, and for all that, the closer he gets, Castiel can feel the stolen grace inside him twist and curl within his chest, coiling tight in horror and trying to get away from _it,_  instantly hostile. He stamps down on it resolutely, expression carefully blank despite the near-physical pain it causes him: this is not an _it._ This is _Dean,_ his charge, his best friend. And Castiel is not going to abandon him.

He’s not sure he could, even if he wanted to.

Castiel sits down on the far corner of the bed, careful not to touch Dean, keeping an arm’s length between them lest he trigger another telekinetic outburst.

“How did this happen, Dean?” he asks, his voice soft and sad.

Dean swallows, and he’s shaking visibly now.

“It’s the Mark. It-- it kept hold, Cas. I thought it would go when I died but…” his voice tapers off. “When I woke up, Crowley was here. I was confused, I didn’t know what the hell was going on. He said-- he wanted…he wanted me to go to Hell with him. Give me the grand tour.” Dean’s smile is dark and cynical. “As if I didn’t _know_ the place.”

 _Crowley_. Castiel can feel his own hackles rising at that, rage building in the pit of his stomach. All of this-- _all of this_ was Crowley’s fault, and now he’s trying to, what, _take Dean under his wing?_ Castiel will die before he sees that happen.

( _You_ _’_ _re going to die anyway, and soon,_ the voice in his head whispers.)

“I told him to shove it, by the way. Well, not exactly. I think I just…really, really _wanted_ him to shove it. He disappeared. The radio exploded.” Dean points to the old radio in the corner, and-- yes, now Castiel can see that it looks rather more blackened and melted than when he’d visited.

“Do you think he’s…”

“Dead? I wish. It’s _Crowley,_ man. Cockroaches ain’t got nothing on him.” Dean hesitates, then gives a tiny, rueful half-smile. “I think he zapped out. Actually…I think he might be kinda _scared_ of me.”

Castiel doesn’t know if the thought is amusing or frightening. “That’s rather impressive”, he settles for, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“Oh yeah. I’m definitely the new show in town.” Dean laughs, the sound devoid of any mirth, before he looks away and resumes staring at his hands.

 “I think Sammy’s scared of me, too,” he whispers eventually, and Castiel’s heart contracts painfully.

“Dean--”

“No, man, don’t even start, okay? Of _course_ he’s scared. Kid's smart. He damn well _should_   be scared.” He turns around on the bed, facing Castiel fully for the first time. “ _You_ should be scared. You should be running in the opposite direction, actually.”

There are no words for how much Castiel could _never_ do that, so he tries for a different answer. “Running away from things is not my style, Dean.”

Dean chuckles, darkly amused. “Oh, we got a badass over here. You meant, running from _demons_ ain’t your style, didn’t you?”

“No.” Castiel denies firmly, and it’s the truth. No matter what the hard facts are, he can’t bring himself to refer to Dean as a demon. He just can’t. Dean is _Dean._

Dean sighs, deep and ragged, dragging a hand over his face. His despair is an almost tangible presence in the room suddenly, and Castiel can _taste_ it, bitter on his tongue.

“Look, man. Let’s not drag this farther than it should go. I know what I am. What… what the Mark _made_ of me. It’s exactly what I didn’t want to become. It’s _everything_ I never wanted to become. I was ready to die to avoid this, but…” He cuts himself off with a frustrated noise.

He turns his face towards Castiel, just a fraction, his eyes still looking at anything but him. Regardless, there’s no hiding the tiny, fragile kernel of hope in his next words. “I don’t suppose you… I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about this? Y’know…soul-wash? Demon master-cleanse?”

It wounds something deep inside Castiel to hear Dean’s voice so small and lost, and Castiel’s pain - his desperate _helplessness_ \- must show in his expression, because Dean turns his face back down, defeated, before Castiel can even reply.

“Yeah, no. Didn’t think so. That would be catching a break, and it just doesn’t _happen_ to me.”

The pause that follows is choking in its silence, thick with Dean’s desperation and Castiel’s powerless grief, crowding the air between the two of them. Finally, Dean straightens his back.

“Well, you know what this means. ‘S why I called you here, after all.”

Castiel tilts his head in questioning, but Dean goes on, seemingly unaware.

“Didn’t even know if I should pray, actually. Kinda thought I might catch fire, or pass out.” He gives a tiny chuckle, then swallows, uncertain. “Didn’t even know if you’d come.”

Castiel stands at that, reaching Dean’s side in two purposeful strides: “Of _course_ I’d come. How could you think that I-- of course I would come. I will _always_ come when you call.”

Dean raises his hands, placating. “Okay, okay, easy. Just wondered. For all I knew, you were locked up in Heaven.”

“I would have found a way. You come first, Dean.”

The surprise playing on Dean’s face at those words is quickly replaced by a hard mask.

“Good. Then put me first on your list now. I gotta go, and I’d rather it was you.”

Castiel is almost sure he knows what Dean means, and completely sure he doesn’t like it. He can feel his back stiffening with tension, the electricity in the room crackling.

“Dean, you had better not be seriously saying what I think you’re saying,” he warns, stern.

“Damn _right_ I’m saying it, Cas! Someone has to!” Dean comes back, his voice raised. “I mean-- _look_ at me, Cas! I’m a fuckin’ _demon,_ for fuck’s sake!”

“Demons can be cured, Dean. You _know_ this. You and Sam have--”

“Yeah, _regular_ , run-of-the-mill demons! Didn’t work so well on Crowley, beyond making him a junkie, and I’m not even…I have the _Mark,_ Cas! That makes me some sort of-- of _super-demon_ or whatever, and sorry, but I’m not taking the chance! You’ve gotta smite my ass, Cas, you know that. I can’t walk away from this, and I can’t be cured, and I won’t have it, Cas, I just _won_ _’_ _t._ ” Dean’s eyes snap up for the first time, finding Castiel’s, burning holes into them; his voice is shaking, cracked with raw emotion, but there’s steel underlying his words.

“I’m not gonna be a monster. I’m not going to be my own worst fucking nightmare. So you _do it,_ Cas. You kill me. You kill me, and you watch out for Sammy, and you go after those bastards, every single one. _That_ _’_ _s_ how you fix it. That’s _all_ I can hope for.” Dean’s voice breaks, his eyes falling back to his shaking hands, and that’s when Castiel knows what he has to do.

Letting the aggression seep out of his stance, he sits down on the bed, inches apart from Dean, ignoring the way his grace shivers inside him, or the way Dean’s muscles clench with tension. He angles his head to find Dean’s eyes, and once he has them, he doesn’t let them go. When he speaks, his voice is calm, but tinged with disbelief.

“After all this time…all that we’ve been through together. After _everything_ …you _still_ don’t think you deserve to be saved.”

Dean swallows and makes to look away, but Castiel doesn’t let him, tracking his gaze relentlessly, mercilessly; for a moment, he feels like his old self again, strong and burning with _purpose._

“You listen to me, Dean Winchester. You listen to me _very_ _carefully,_ because I won’t be saying this again. You _do_ deserve salvation. You deserved it then, and you deserve it now. And that is _exactly_ what you’re going to get. I’m not going to kill you. Not now, not _ever._ And if you ever ask me again, you will regret it sorely. Don’t you _dare,_ Dean-- _don_ _’_ _t you dare_ say that to me again.”

The noise that leaves Dean’s lips is somewhere between a growl and a whine, the keen of a trapped, wounded animal.

“ _Dammit_ , Cas, you son of a bitch.” He curses, but his voice has lost its steely edge, replaced entirely by the throbbing pulse of self-loathing. “Don’t be stupid. How can I be saved when I’m-- when I’m _this_? You don’t know what it’s like. I have _evil_ inside me! It’s like this-- this rage, this empty… _darkness_ , and it’s eating me alive. You don’t know how hard it is when I just want-- I’m going to hurt somebody, Cas! I _want_ to hurt somebody! Hell, I want to hurt _you_ , right now!” Dean yells, and on that last desperate word, his eyes flash obsidian-black. It only lasts a second, but Castiel’s shocked intake of breath tells Dean all he needs to know, and Castiel swears he’s never seen such pure, unadulterated _grief_ on a demon’s face.

Dean shields his eyes, curling into himself, blinking with rising panic until green irises resurface.

“You see, Cas.” His voice is nothing more than a broken whisper now, and Castiel feels ripped open, everything inside him pulsing with pain. “You see what I am. Please, please end it. I am _begging_ here, Cas. Don’t let this happen to me. I don’t want to see _this_ in the mirror for another moment. I don’t want Sam-- I don’t want _you_ to see it.” His voice catches on a sob. “ _Please_.”

Slowly, carefully, Castiel reaches a hand out. Finds Dean’s hand, grasping it, and holding it tighter when it spasms in surprise. His other hand alights on Dean’s chin with the gentlest of touches, lifting it up, tilting his head towards Castiel. Demons don’t cry, Castiel knows this, but Dean’s eyes are so red-rimmed and mournful that it’s the closest thing he’s ever seen.

“Yes, Dean, I see what you are. I do.” He pauses, his hand moving to cup Dean’s cheek more fully. “And what you are is _good_.”

“No…” Dean croaks out in protest, shaking his head, but Castiel is undeterred.

“You’re _good_ , Dean, you’re so good. You’ve saved so many. You’ve protected so many. You were ready to die to do the right thing. I could never kill you, Dean. Not when you’re the best man I’ve ever known.”

Dean shivers under his hand then, his eyes fluttering closed for an instant, and he mouths _don_ _’_ _t_ , his lips forming the word as if even its shape is hurting him. Castiel just smiles, and his hand doesn’t let go of Dean’s, his thumb stroking the smallest of circles against Dean’s cheekbone.

“Do you want to know what your soul was like when I rescued it from Hell, Dean?” he murmurs.

Dean says nothing, but he opens his eyes, and theplea Castiel can read there is heartbreaking. _Tell me I_ _’_ _m not lost,_ it says. _Tell me how you came for me. Tell me you_ _’_ _ll find me again._

That’s all Castiel wants, too.

“You were starting to turn, by then. What Alastair had done to you-- it would have broken anyone, and your soul was heavy with hatred, with fear. Blackened and devoid of hope. But, Dean.”Castiel drops his hand from Dean’s face, holding Dean’s hand between both of his. “ _Dean_. Your soul… was still so _beautiful_.”

Dean’s eyes widen in shock, but Castiel leaves no time for questions or doubts. “Even charred and broken, even covered in Hell’s evil and grime, it was the most _blinding_ soul I’d ever seen. There was a light in you they couldn’t put out. They never will.”

Castiel turns Dean’s hand between his own, then, cradling it, palm upwards. “I held your soul inside my grace that day, Dean, and I felt it. Why they hadn’t managed to break you completely.” His thumbs still run circles against Dean’s palm, soothing. _Listen. Hear me. Believe me. Stay. Fight._ “I felt all of it, Dean. Your courage. Your generosity. Your determination to fight for what’s right. Your stubborn loyalty. But most of all, Dean, I felt your unwavering capacity for love. Even after all that time in Hell-- you could still _love_  so fiercely.”

Dean’s quiet exhale is one of astonishment, and this time Castiel is certain he did not imagine the answering press of his hand.

“I knew then that you truly were the Righteous Man. And I know it now. It was my privilege to pull you from Hell, and I assure you that what I rescued was no monster.”

“But Cas... the Mark. How--”

He gives Dean’s hand a firmer squeeze, his gaze unrelenting, hiding nothing, burning with the heat of conviction.

“Before you ever received Cain’s Mark, you wore _mine_.” He can see Dean swallow, but doesn’t let up, holding him in place with touch and voice and eyes. “ _I_ rescued you from the Pit, Dean. And I’m not letting you go back. Not ever. I’ll lay siege to Hell again before I see that happen.”

Dean shakes his head again, but this time, when he speaks, his voice is less desperate, tinged with disbelief and affection. “You’re basically _human_ now, Cas.”

“Is that supposed to stop me?”

Dean’s mouth opens and closes twice, fish-like, and Castiel would smile if he wasn’t so deadly _serious._

“I will cure you with my _human_ blood if I have to, Dean. I am going to stay and fight. Because this, this comes before everything. Before Metatron, before Crowley. I’m not giving up on you, Dean; _Sam_ is not giving up on you.”And Castiel can’t help it, he really can’t, if his voice cracks at the edges for the briefest moment when he adds, “So don’t you _dare_ give up on yourself.”

Dean hesitates, his hand twitching between Castiel’s, and his mouth opens once more, but Castiel shakes his head, his knee nudging Dean’s leg. “You’ve been a stubborn ass the whole time I’ve known you, Dean Winchester. Don’t stop now.”

And that finally, _finally,_ brings a small smile to Dean’s lips, and they both huff out laughter through their nose at the same time, some crushing weight lifting off their chests and making them giddy.

“Okay. Okay, you stupid, stubborn son of a bitch. Fine. I’m not gonna gank myself. Yet.”

_“_ _Dean--_ _”_

“…And by the way, that doesn’t change anything I said. I’m still fucked up, Cas. I’m still _dangerous._ And if I hurt Sam, or you…”he shakes his head vehemently. “I control it for now, but you gotta keep an eye on me. At all times. I _mean_ it, Cas. The moment I feel like I can’t hold back any longer, you make sure that I can’t harm anyone. You do it, Cas, or I will kick your ass ten ways into next century.”

“Well. You can try, anyway.”

Dean snorts. “Jackass.”

“Assbutt.”

“Still not a real word, Cas.”

“Oh, bite me.”

They sit like that for a while, in companionable silence. Things are still gloomy and awful, of course, but there’s an edge of hope now, Castiel thinks-- and he’s glad to be the one responsible for it. Dean has given him direction so many times before: what cause to stand for, which battles to pick; what it means to be _family._ It’s his turn to lead Dean, now, and he intends to do it as best he can.

He only realizes he’s still holding Dean’s hand when he feels Dean fidget, fingers tracing a pattern against Castiel’s right palm.

“Hey, Cas?”

“Dean?”

“Am I…” there’s another uncertain pause where the unhappiness from before comes rushing back so strongly it nearly cuts off Castiel’s breath. “Do I have a…‘true face’now? Like a… a demon face? You know what I mean. All gross and _wrong._ I saw them when I was about to go to Hell the first time, and…”

“No. Well, yes and no. It’s…black, and kind of…faceless, and smoke-like. But I can’t see anything else. It’s still you, Dean, just…”

“Yeah, just _demony._ How comforting.” More fidgeting. “How can you even stand to be near me anymore? Isn’t it…I mean, aren’t I…?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “You’re _Dean._ You’re my friend. I don’t find you revolting, if that’s what you’re asking. You don’t need to worry about me deciding you’re-- _unclean_ , or anything like that. I’m not going anywhere.”

“But I’m--”

“A demon. _Temporarily._ ” Castiel stresses, pulling Dean’s hand into his own lap. “That changes nothing. Did you give up on me when I ingested all those souls? When I was insane? When I was at the other end of Purgatory? When Heaven tore into my head and washed it clean?”

“Well, no, I guess not, but that’s--”

“You _always_ came back for me, Dean. And now I’m going to do the same for you. Black smoke, black eyes and all the rest. We’re family, you and I.”

And that’s when the levee breaks. Suddenly, Castiel finds himself with an armful of Dean, hanging on for dear life, his forehead pressed to Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel hugs him back, and can’t help but sigh and let his eyes fall shut. Even with the uncomfortable squirming of their conflicting essences, even with the smell of sulfur overpowering Dean’s familiar scent of leather and gun oil, it still feels like coming home.

 

***

 

Castiel isn’t sure how long they stay like that.

Eventually, it’s Dean that breaks the silence, voice still muffled against Castiel’s shoulder. “I can see you, too.”

“Hmm?”

“I mean _see you_. You know, true form. All that jazz. I mean I _think_ I can, it’s kinda…blurry. Think I’m still new at this second-sight thing. But you definitely have more heads than necessary. Horns too. And feathers. A lot of feathers.”

Castiel huffs in annoyance, but he can’t bring himself to be really upset, not when Dean finally sounds a little bit like his old self.

“Well, yes. That sounds about right, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean…it isn’t like, _ugly_. Just-- weird. Kinda scary maybe. But cool. You’re…really _bright_.”

Dean’s voice is awed, and Castiel isn’t sure why that makes him flush with pleasure, but it does.

“Thought you were the size of the Chrysler building, though. Bit of an embellishment there, huh?”

Castiel thumps Dean’s back in mock reproach. “I’m not fully myself, Dean. This grace is burning out fast.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Okay.” Castiel can _feel_ the smirk against his shoulder, and huffs a laugh.

“You’re impossible.”

“Damn right. But Cas?”

“ _Yes,_ Dean.”

“Don’t let it. Burn out, I mean. I want you to…I need you to be safe, okay? Gotta fix yourself if you’re gonna fix me.” Dean’s grip on his coat goes tighter, and Castiel can’t help but reciprocate it.

“Alright.”

Dean nods, his nose brushing against Castiel’s neck, and it’s difficult to resist the shiver that goes through him at the feather-light touch.

Eventually, Dean pulls back, his eyes redder than before, but the lines on his face are not so heavy and dark anymore.

“I think, uh-- can you maybe…call Sam in here? I’m not sure I’m up to going out there. We have devil’s traps, like, _everywhere._ ”

Ah. Yes. That is another thing that they’ll have to take into consideration, Castiel muses wryly. Adjustments will have to made. But that’s okay. They’ve never played quite by the rules, the boys and him.

“I will call Sam for you,” he agrees, standing, but he finds that Dean doesn’t let go of his hand, so he lingers, looking down at Dean’s familiar, well-loved face, into those eyes that only a handful of hours ago he thought he’d never see again.

Whatever they’ll have to face now, it can’t be worse than that, surely; can’t be worse than losing Dean for good. As he thinks this, Dean flushes somewhat, ducking his head, but his voice is earnest and quiet.

“Thanks, Cas. For not giving up. For-- just for being here. It’s more than I deserve. I really did think I’d never see you again.”

The vibrant gratitude in Dean’s voice makes Castiel bold, so he leans down, his hands cupping Dean’s face once more. “I would think you’d have learned by now, Dean, that no matter what happens, or which one of us dies, I always find my way back to you.”He holds Dean’s gaze a moment longer, just to make sure the words sink in. Then he covers the distance between them, pressing a lingering kiss to Dean’s forehead. Dean’s sigh speaks of water in the desert, of balm on an open wound, of _salvation._

“You always do.”

“I always will.” Castiel murmurs, and it sounds like _You_ _’_ _re forgiven. I love you. You_ _’_ _re saved._

It sounds like a promise.


End file.
